


Hands Up, Hands Tied

by manhattan



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Dom/sub, F/M, Femdom, First Time, Hyuuga adapts, Riko is absolutely Not Good at Domming, Rope Bondage, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 22:41:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1582034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manhattan/pseuds/manhattan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hyuuga is a man of his word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands Up, Hands Tied

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't finished the manga yet - so this is an au where, despite everyone winning everything there is ever to win in the world (because seirin deserves it), hyuuga confesses naked anyway

“My parents are out of town,” Riko says, and that’s why Hyuuga ends up having to walk her home in the pouring, heavy rain. “You know, because of the perverts! You wouldn’t let a cute girl go home by herself, right, Hyuuga?”

He says: “Where’s the cute girl?” and she hits him, but he walks her home anyway (like the entire team knew he would). Her umbrella is tiny – her father took the only other one in the house – and Hyuuga’s has been stolen by some fucking asshole who’s going to grovel for forgiveness if he ever finds who did it, he swears it. By the time they get home, the icy wind has assured the pink plastic wires give out, and Hyuuga is soaked to the bone on his entire left side. Riko gives him a look when they’re by her porch, and Hyuuga feels the back of his neck heat. His chest, too, and his face, and the pit of his stomach, something deep and curling.

Riko turns her face away, fiddling with her keys, and Hyuuga looks at her damp hair, at her wet socks, white and short like an athlete’s.

“Just come in, or you’ll get sick,” Riko says, and though her tone is casual he has this urge to spin her around and look at her face, he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t question it, just nods and then says ‘okay’ when he remembers she’s not looking at him.

Her house is dark, despite the blinds being open; her curtains are also pushed to the side, but the sky outside is gray and dark, and the corridor is only palely, dimly lit. Her knees glisten when she leans over to take off her shoes, the gesture practiced and easy. Hyuuga’s glasses slide down his nose when he looks up, aching for the end of her skirt, rising higher; he feels himself flush, embarrassed for trying to look and frustrated for not managing it.

Riko walks on, leaving him struggling with his outdoor shoes. She climbs the stairs with fleeting, quiet steps, and it’s a full minute before he manages to see her again. His breath is a little winded, but he’d rather die than let her hear it, because Riko would put him through hell just to make sure he’s on top shape. He breathes in so slowly he thinks he might die from asphyxiation.

Riko steps out of her parents’ room holding a shirt and pants, and gives him an odd look when she finds him loitering outside her room.

“Just hurry up,” she says, impatient, giving him a shove. The door to her room swings open, and hits the wall with a thud. Hyuuga gives her room a once-over while he’s stumbling, searching for something without really knowing why. Riko glances at him so meaningfully he can see it even though the leg of his glasses cuts into his periphery. The back of his neck flushes, but he pretends she’s not going to notice.

“What’s that for?” Hyuuga asks, pointing at her father’s clothes. Like he’s stupid.

“I’ll get the water running,” Riko replies, ignoring him as she walks out again. He hears a door opening in the distance, and then realizes he’s in her room, by himself. Hyuuga briefly entertains himself by picturing his hands searching through her underwear drawer, and then shuffles his wet socks around a bit, dragging them around her pink carpet.

He hasn’t been here in a while; not since he was tutored by her in one subject or other back when they’d first discovered Kagami was shitty at Japanese. They’re older now, more accustomed to each other, but he still feels at a loss. Her room is pinker now, softer, and he can’t stop checking the corners for dirty underwear, because that’s where he piles his. Shit, he thinks, closing his eyes, bringing his fingers up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. Why can’t he stop thinking about underwear?

“Hyuuga,” Riko calls, over the sound of rushing water. Hyuuga swallows, aching for a glass of something cool, but eventually steps out. She hands him a towel, and it smells like her house. The bath is full, steaming into the wall and fogging the white tiles. “Don’t take too long,” she adds, commanding as usual, “I want to take a bath, too.”

He straightens, pushes his glasses up his nose. Suddenly, he is aware of how wet her shirt is, on the shoulder, and the strap of her bra is black. Hyuuga thinks about how flat she is first, and how black is such a mature color later. He swallows.

“You go first, then,” he says, throat tight.

“What? No,” Riko says, giving him another odd look. “We can’t risk you getting sick. Hurry up and take your clothes off.”

Hyuuga is glad years of getting punched have honed him into a poker-faced man when it comes to her, because he manages not to laugh. But he blushes, and he feels it, and Riko sees it. Of course she does.

“You’re flushing,” Riko hisses, livid, and Hyuuga is, for the first time, ecstatic that she’s so obsessed over her players’ health. “Get into the bath right now before I make you,” she adds, stomping out of the bathroom and closing the door behind her while he watches dumbly. Her steps, heavy with annoyance, eventually fade into distant whispers. Hyuuga unbuttons his shirt, peels it off with too unsteady fingers.

The water is too hot when he slips inside the bath.

Hyuuga, too.

* * *

It’s still raining by the time he walks out of the bathroom, toweling his damp hair. It smells like her father’s shampoo, but Hyuuga will admit, at least to himself, that he considered using hers and excusing himself with his lousy eyesight. Maybe to Teppei, if they ever man up and try buying drinks after the Winter Cup.

He knocks on the door of her room even though it’s half-open; Riko is sitting on her bed, bare legs crossed, a towel around her neck. Her wet hair fans over the white like it’s meant to be there. He frowns, looks away.

“I used the one downstairs, because you took so long,” Riko tells him, smirking a little. Hyuuga sniffs indignantly, and pushes his glasses up his nose. Then, as an afterthought, he tugs at his collar, feeling warm – the gesture is needless because Aida-san is bigger than him, and his shirt hangs from Hyuuga’s neck like it’s not meant to be there. Riko’s eyes lock onto his fingers as they curl around the first button, and he stills, caught. Her gaze flickers away; Hyuuga tries not to think of Aida-san’s glaring face, tries not to think of what he’d do to if he knew Hyuuga is here, with his daughter, alone –

He makes to leave, then, beginning to excuse himself, and Riko looks right past him and out the window of her room, like he’s made of glass.

“Ah, it’s still raining,” she says, “so you can eat here—“

“That’s not necessary,” Hyuuga says swiftly, setting a hand against his stomach without meaning to. Riko frowns, that one wrinkle under her eye twitching, and he stiffens, repentant.

“You’re free to leave,” she says breezily, uncrossing and crossing her legs. Her hands rest on her bare knees; her nails are cut short and coated with, he presumes, some kind of transparent nail polish. His eyes shift to the side, find her bare legs, the end of her shorts. He thinks they might be pajama shorts, but he doesn’t want to linger on that thought any longer than he already has, so he pays mind to her hoodie instead. Pajamas are too intimate, too much – they’re not childhood friends, he remembers, because sometimes he feels like he’s known her for a lifetime.

Riko’s hands slip inside the pocket of her sweatshirt, dragging out the numbers, her name in caps lock. Teppei had told him, let’s put her first name, and Hyuuga had thought it too forward, but the taller boy had been unmovable. It’s his best kept secret, but every time he sees her wearing it, he feels – he feels –

“Oh,” Riko cuts in, distracted, “but the only umbrella I have with me is mine – daddy stole the other one, for whatever reason.”

“The pink one?” he asks, because he’s a gentleman and he resists the urge to say: “the one that will never recover from today?” because he _saw_ the way the plastic was bending by the time they got home, and he’s not enough of a fool to think she’ll be able to use it again.

“Yes, Riko says, eyes bright. He sighs, only mildly horrified as she sits up and walks out of the room, giving him a look that makes him catch up. She’s laughing as she skips downstairs, bare feet pale against the wood.

Her kitchen continues as clean as ever – the dark day outside is enough for them to see, though, and Riko doesn’t turn on the light, instead leaning over to check the contents of her fridge. Hyuuga stills, takes a good look at her thighs, at the patch of fabric he can see if he hikes his neck to the side, a flash of pale blue hidden under pajama shorts. His throat is dry.

“Can I have some water,” he says, starting to feel sick.

“Don’t be such a big baby,” Riko says, not looking at him, “these are just leftovers, I didn’t cook them.”

The relief spreads through him like warm butter, but he still thinks he might need a glass of water. Hyuuga’s mouth is dry and tasteless and his lips are noticeably chapped when he runs his tongue over them. Riko looks over her shoulder then, picking up tupperwares with a steady hand, and her eyes catch his. Hyuuga feels the customary chill that strikes whenever she uses her eyes on him, staring at him without giving him the slightest hint of interest. He closes his fists, warm.

“You’re tense,” she says, walking past him to set the leftovers on the counter. The plates are on the cupboard above the sink, and Hyuuga knows this despite not having been around much, so he helps her set the table. The sun is setting outside, and Riko hasn’t turned on the lights, just opened the exhaust hood over the stove – its bulbs are tiny and yellow and they make shadows where there shouldn’t be any. The back of her knees, the dimples there. “Wasn’t the training enough?” she teases.

He startles, tensing even more, because there is no way she’s not enjoying herself.

Hyuuga tells her, “It was,” in a practiced, shell-shocked tone, “so please spare us from more torture.”

Riko gives him an amused look, sliding his rice and chicken into the microwave before she directs him to the forks and knives. He sits at the table after he sets it, sipping at the glass of water Riko has served him effortlessly. She battles with her fibrous chicken leg, before giving up and exchanging it for another piece. The microwave dings; Hyuuga stands up to fetch it, but she’s faster, and when she sets the plate in front of him, she leans in far more than she needs to.

He takes another sip.

The chicken smells nice, and _looks_ nice, and he searches around it with his fork when she’s not looking, just making sure she hasn’t slipped him any vitamins. She hasn’t, and the knowledge of it makes him want to kiss her. Riko sits in front of him, crossing her legs, her bare feet brushing against Aida-san’s pants once. He bites the inside of his cheek before resuming the meal.

It’s a pleasant ordeal, somewhat. The rain doesn’t let on, and he’s starting to wonder if he should just ask his dad to come pick him up, or something, when Riko begins speaking in the exact same tone she uses before an important match. Hyuuga, conditioned by years of training with her, listens attentively, feeling like Pavlov’s dog and hating himself for it. He can’t help it – when Coach talks, everyone listens.

“Hyuuga,” she starts, closing her cutlery on top of her plate politely, “if I were to – come forward with some … sensible information, what should I expect your reaction to be like?”

He chokes on the rice, distinctly feels the pain of someone who’s inhaled food, and then swallows down the rest of his glass. Her house is too quiet, and his awkwardness too loud, but Riko doesn’t laugh. His neck is so warm. Her eyes, too, burrowing into his so easily.

“What are you saying,” he manages eventually, slightly croaky, setting down the empty glass. He plays it off with a smile, but he’s already halfway there, already starting to see why she’s been so insistent.

“You know what I’m saying,” Riko replies, and it clicks, everything, from the start.

“Oh,” Hyuuga says dumbly, watching her lean back on her chair.

The clock in her corridor ticks into another minute, and he listens to it over his drumming chest, somehow. They’d agreed, before, not to act on whatever is between them. Not until the Winter Cup, was what Riko said to a girlfriend of hers, or something, Hyuuga doesn’t remember the details but he remembers the seriousness of her voice, how steady it was. Dating is weird to Hyuuga, but the team always complains about how lovey-dovey the two of them seem when they plan the more horrifying practices – so maybe this would be –

“Okay,” he eventually mutters, his hand climbing to soothe the side of the first button. Aida-san’s shirt hangs and shifts when he unbuttons it; Riko doesn’t move her eyes away from his face, and Hyuuga almost appreciates it. The kitchen is warm, somewhat, the tiles warm against the flesh of his feet, but Hyuuga still shivers when Aida-san’s shirt parts, each side hanging off either shoulder. It’s too large, but this he already knew, and when the fabric brushes against his arms, it feels breezy and soft. He steels through it, willing himself to play the part of captain, willing to spare himself the shame of what’s to come.

“On your feet,” Riko says, using the voice, the coaching voice, and Hyuuga is standing up before he knows it, her kitchen chair skidding backwards with a screech. Neither of them turn to look at it. She’s staring straight into his face, resting hers into her hand. Her feet shakes along a beat only she hears. “Would you like some dessert?” she adds, then, as if she’s only just remembered she is at home, where she can eat anything she likes. Hyuuga closes his eyes, wills himself to think of how terribly basketballs smell after years of use.

He shakes his head.

“Your loss,” Riko says, smiling impishly as she lifts off the table without a sound, turning to her fridge. The freezer is one of the new, high-powered ones, and the steam rolls off of it in waves of white, parting where it meets her chest. He looks into the ice, averting his eyes from there; she brings out chocolate ice cream, sets it on the table, and produces a tiny spoon. Her fingers pull the lid off, and then she’s staring at him again. Hyuuga takes it he’s supposed to continue – he does.

“Um,” he breathes, shaky, dropping Aida-san’s shirt on the back of his chair, practically feeling her eyes as they rake over the trembling muscles of his arms. “As previously promised,” he adds, not looking at her, “I, um—“

“You missed a spot,” Riko helpfully cuts in, eyes darting down below to strike at her father’s pants, and Hyuuga’s fingers twitch in the direction of the button before he can help himself. She notices; he notices her. The spoon draws an arc and finishes inside her mouth. He has to be obvious to see, but her tongue cradles it before her lips close, and there’s a brief pause before she swallows. Hyuuga mimics her. “Well?”

“Y-Yes,” he replies, and then feels warm for taking her orders this easily, because in the end this isn’t the field and they’re just two high-school students. His fingers still fumble with the pants, but when he nails it they fall to his ankles, too large to hold properly. What the fuck is Aida-san eating, Hyuuga thinks, and then shudders, wondering if Riko puts vitamins in _his_ food, too.

“Nice boxers,” Riko says, easy and honest.

“Thanks,” he replies, automatically, leaning over to step out of them. He’s already used to being watched while changing, but it’s different, like a nervous sort of energy is piling steadily onto his stomach. He grabs at the pants, a little tighter. They’re dark, and contrast against the white shirt when he folds them across the chair’s back. His boxers feel tiny, but at least he’s not wearing briefs, and he’s got a cute butt, anyway, so.

Riko’s still staring at his face, almost as if – expectant? He swallows, remembers what she’s waiting for.

“I’m in love with you,” he says, holding himself high, but Riko lifts a hand, eats with the other. Her tongue slides over her upper lip in a fast line and he watches it all like it’s the first time he’s seen it happen.

“Hyuuga-kun,” Riko says, all flushed sweetness, pursing her lips as she plays with the melting chocolate ice cream. There’s a drawing on the dessert, on top, and he strains to see what but she keeps on talking: “Do you understand the meaning of the word naked?” And there it is, there it is – he hears it, and he hears it loud and clear and reverberant, both the word and how soft and shy her voice sounds for a half-second. God, Hyuuga thinks, I’m not a religious person, but.

“I do,” he replies blandly, his throat scratchy. Riko averts her eyes, the flush rising to her face, the spoon slicing another wave of dark chocolate. There are bits and pieces around the cream, and he stares at those, because it’s better than to drool all over her just because she’s blushing. Hyuuga thought he’d be better at hiding his feelings, but it seems not; doesn’t matter, anyway, because this isn’t the field, and Riko is no opponent.

His fingers ghost over the gray elastic band, his breath stuttering. He can feel the heat rushing towards his dick, and tries his best not to shift his legs, bothered. Hyuuga’s not new to the subject of male arousal (like Kagami’s permanent frustrated demeanor suggests the other boy might be), and he has a routine for it and everything, just to make sure he’s not caught by surprise in the middle of practice or something life-ruining like that. But – is she – is she telling him to act on it now, or is he just reading too much into it? Fuck, Hyuuga thinks, hands tightening.

Riko eats her last spoonful of ice-cream, closing the lid with steady hands. She looks at him, after.

“I’ll wait for as long as you want.”

He nods, thankful, and then exhales, long and frustrated, pushing his boxers down to his ankles and stepping out of them. They hang off the chair like Aida-san’s clothes, and why the _fuck_ is he still thinking about her father at a time like this? He lifts his head, stares at her, chin high, and Riko’s face flushes all over, down to her neck, down to her ears, but she doesn’t look down. Proving she is much stronger than him – if it were him in her position, then, well. Well.

“I’d like to ask you out sometime,” Hyuuga says, strained, feeling something twitching in his neck, “like, like on days off or whenever we don’t have practice, or, uh—“

“Okay,” she replies, and shrugs, but her face is turned away. Her cheeks are bunched up, like she’s smiling, and the line of her nose is pink. “I’ll have to think about it,” she adds, teasing, like he doesn’t know she’s given it enough thought already.

“Thanks,” Hyuuga breathes, and Riko stands up from the table. For a second, he tenses in anticipation, his fists brushing against his hipbones as he tries to cover himself as best as he can, the adrenaline gone with his confession. But she only turns around, slipping the chocolate-stained bowl inside her washing machine. He looks at her legs and manages to, this time. Her underwear is dark-blue, without a pattern, and it digs into her buttock like it’s been drawn there. Hyuuga covers his dick, ashamed, and resolutely glares at the plates until she lifts those, as well. All that remains is his half-full glass of water.

“Do you want to sleep over,” Riko says, breaking him out of staring at the slip of underwear she’s been rewarding him with. She sounds kind of choked up, like she’s trying not to cough, and the low tone shoots straight into his stomach, tightening. “The rain,” she tacks on lamely, “isn’t letting up.”

His answer is immediate, trained out of him like only she can, and his yes reverberates through her kitchen.

Riko nods to herself, grabbing his glass of water and walking right past him, what the fuck. Hyuuga tightens, surprised, his hands betraying him and covering his dick without him really wanting to. She doesn’t pay it any mind, just pads away into the corridor and up the stairs. Hyuuga looks at the table, empty, and then at the windows, half-open. A beat passes. Is he supposed to wait? To follow? Riko always punctuates her orders with a smile, but this time there is no suggestion of either.

He closes his eyes, deep and tight, and then releases a breath, spinning on the ball of his foot. She’s leaning on the jamb, eyes lifting off somewhere around his waist to meet his.

“Cute butt,” Riko says, approving, and it kills him how she tries to keep her voice steady and dominating despite its shivers, her pink face. He pushes his glasses up his nose to divert himself. His hands are so sweaty. “Are you coming?”

“Y-Yes,” he says, like she’d expected anything else.

And then his eyes catch on the jumping rope, curled around her wrist and behind her back like it's a tail, wagging happily to see him.


End file.
